Your fault
by Ha ha I'm so alone
Summary: ParentLock. When John and Sherlock's young daughter goes missing they try desperately hard to find her, leading to grim discoveries and sickening truths. But as the hours turn to days and the days turn to weeks, Sherlock can't help thinking this was all his fault...
1. Chapter 1

**Trigger warnings: pedophilia and sexual violence. Parentlock and Johnlock.**

Eve was an odd little girl.

She sported Sherlock's dark hair and pale skin… and also his love for science; her room was decorated with a periodic table and a poster from the Disney movie 'Frozen.'

Of course she may have fallen symptom to typical 6-year-old syndrome, where she laughed whenever her daddies acted silly and got excited over the prospect of dolls… but there was always that oddness to her, her intelligence but at the same time, her patience. She seemed to take after John in that sense, as a brave, accepting individual.

Sherlock heard the two clatter in from behind him. He was sitting at the computer, eyes fixed on the screen. 'Hello dad,' Eve said bouncing into the room.

'Eve…' Sherlock said slowly, still not looking away. 'Good day at school?'

'They're still giving me foundation level stuff.'

'Oh.'

'Dad?'

'Yes?'

'What's the difference between an alkane and an alkene?'

Sherlock exhaled.

'An alkane is a single-bonded hydrocarbon, an alkene is a double bonded,' he frowned at the screen.

'Oh, thank you.' Eve paused for a second, processing the information.

'Hey, get off the table, you!' John said jokily.

'Sorry,' Eve muttered, hopping off the table. She sauntered over to the kitchen just as John slowly approached behind Sherlock. He lowered his voice.

'Anything new?' John asked.

'No.'

'Shit.'

He paused, hearing Eve totter back towards them. 'So missus,' John said. 'Did you think any more about having someone over for tea?' Eve looked up, unloading a loaf of bread and some butter from her arms. She laid them out over the cluttered table.

'No,' she muttered. 'I've been too busy thinking about polymers.'

'Oh come on I'm serious! Have you not made any friends yet?'

She shook her head. Noticing his worried expression, she smiled kindly. 'You needn't fret you know Daddy,' she said, letting her schoolbag drop to the floor. 'Miss. Lancey is letting me stay in at break time to do other things.'

'But you should be outside playing! You like playing, don't you?'

'Yes, but by myself, with my dolls. Other people can't join in. They muck it all up.'

'You need to be a bit more open, sweetie… and what do you mean, muck it up?' She stopped, giving him a meaningful glance.

'They don't understand that Barbie has life goals beyond getting married and having her nails done; I was right in the middle of recreating the plight of the suffragettes when Charlotte butted in and asked if Barbie wanted to help her bake a pie.'

John repressed a laugh that was creeping onto the corners of his mouth. He dropped his head. 'And what did you say to Charlotte?'

'I told her she was perpetuating stereotypes… but she didn't know what that meant so we carried on playing for a bit and then she wanted to play dolls wars.'

'What's that?'

'A swordfight but with dolls. Doing stupid things is fun sometimes.' She put her hand into the plastic bag, bringing out a slice of bread and nibbling on the edges.

'Well does Charlotte want to come over to tea?'

'How would I know?'

'You could try asking her.'

'But what if she said no? it would be embarrassing…' Eve's little face turned red at the very thought of rejection.

'You should take that chance… you can't expect things to change unless you actually do something.'

She nodded slowly, biting into the bread. 'Yeah,' she mumbled. 'Yeah, I suppose.'

* * *

><p>'There were once two men, or so it was said; one ruled by his heart, and one ruled by his head. One was a blogger, the other a detective, but to love each other was their one true objective. They loved each other lots and lots, and were never too far apart. And the man, it said who was ruled by his head, was suddenly ruled by his heart.<p>

But though they were happy, and happy they were, with living, hugging and kissing… they found themselves wondering, pondering, thinking, thinking that something was missing. The detective thought all day and night, wondering what it could be, then he clicked his fingers and said to his blogger that he wanted a family.

So off they went, they searched and searched for the perfect little girl, until they found her, with big blue eyes and beautiful dark curls. So they took her home, they named her Eve and they laid her in her cot, it was then they knew, this Evie girl they loved an awful lot.'

It was a little poem John had written when looking after a baby Eve one day, and bored out of his mind. It was now a nightly ritual that Eve would hear the story of the blogger and the detective before bed. Gently closing the book, John leaned over and kissed Eve on the forehead. 'Goodnight love,' he said gently, standing.

'Daddy,' Eve called before he had a chance to leave. John turned. Her face was illuminated by her pink Disney Princess lampshade, and it bore a quizzical expression.

'Yes?'

'Dad said that's not how it worked,' she wriggled upwards, propping herself on her elbows. 'He said that they found a um… a… _sur_rogate mother to have me…'

'That's enough.'

'What?'

'I think you're too young to be having this conversation.'

'No I'm not!' She shook her head from side to side, her front tooth biting at her lower lip. Her face was in a sort of smile. 'I'm old now! I'm getting too old for you to carry me.'

'You're not getting old, my arms are.'

'No Daddy I'm getting heavy. A girl at school told me. I sat on her. We were fighting.' John exhaled, his face looking like he might sigh or start laughing. He instead shook his head.

'Goodnight,' he said firmly, before switching the light off. Turning on his heel he left the room, closed the door behind him.

The last thing he saw was Evie's long dark curls rippled on the pillow beside her head.

'I'm gonna need you to pick up Evie tomorrow okay?' he approached Sherlock, who was squinting meticulously at a test tube. He grunted once in response, pale blue eyes trained on the tube. 'Sherlock?'

'Yes… I said yes.'

'Good, thank you… it's only for the week.'

'Whaty're you doing that's so important anyway?'

'I'm taking French classes.'

'French classes,' Sherlock said flatly. He tore his gaze from the test tube to glance witheringly at John.

'Why not? You're always speaking in bloody fluent languages, why can't I learn for once?' He squeezed past Sherlock. Shifting a coffee cup and a pile of magazines away from his laptop, he lowered himself into his chair.

'I could have taught you,' the detective muttered.

John gave a short, one-syllable laugh. 'Yeah, like you'd have the patience to teach me anything.'

'I taught Eve about ion bonding!'

'Yeah, and you almost scared the life out of her!' Despite his state, Sherlock could hear humor rise in his partner's voice. It made a smile creep to his mouth.

'So… I'm passionate about my ions,' he muttered. John laughed again, only more genuinely. Sherlock turned to face him, his smile spreading wider; why did his face have to look so irresistible when it smiled? 'Was she alright?' he asked.

'Going to bed? Yeah. Apart from the fact that she was asking about surrogate mothers,' he raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

'Well John, you may be in the place to lie to your daughter, but I'm not.'

'Sherlock, she's six years old; let her find out in her own time!'

There was a long pause and then a sigh. 'I suppose so.'

'Sherlock?'

'Yeah?'

'Do you think Eve is… happy? At school?' There was another sigh.

'You'd know more than me. And she's very bright… perhaps we should move her up to a higher class?'

'If we were going to do that we may as well move her up into high-school.' Sherlock swallowed.

_No way is my baby going to high school_ he thought. _Those kids are vicious_. The very mention of it made his blood run cold. And poor little Evie would have no Mycroft looking out for her.

He was so enwrapped in thought that he didn't hear John approach behind him. There was a tiny flinch before he relaxed, allowing John to snake his arms around his middle and hug him from behind. He kissed Sherlock's high cheeks before resting his chin on his shoulder and nuzzling against Sherlock's neck. Sherlock turned, touching the back of John's soft pale hair, before pecking him on the lips.

'Eve's asleep,' he whispered, rocking Sherlock slowly by the shoulders.

'Give me a minute,' Sherlock muttered in response, picking up the bottled bromine water. John released him.

'I'll be in the bedroom,' he said, padding away. The detective smirked, placing the yellowed substance of his test-tube in its rack.

He turned back to his Bromine water before stopping, cocking his head towards Evie's door. There he sighed, laid the test-tube down and paced towards her room.

He gently pushed the door open on her sleeping face. Smiling, he crept towards her, before leaning over and stroking her wild hair. He kissed her exposed canvas of forehead. 'Goodnight Eve,' he whispered. 'I know it's unethical that I'm talking to you whilst you're unconscious… but I want you to know that I love you lots and lots, and so does Daddy. Perhaps a little part of this will leak through your brain's consciousness and create a subliminal message in your mind… that'd be nice.' With that he stood, turned, looked at her one last time and left the room.

**Six-year-olds don't tend to talk like this, yeah, but bear in mind this is Sherlock's kid. Reviews are very much appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

2

John awoke to an unpleasant smell and Eve standing over him.

As he opened his eyes he saw that she'd stretched her pyjama top over her nose and was holding something out in front of her. She blinked. 'Good morning.'

'What is…' John wriggled up onto his elbows, squinting in the light. She blinked again.

'Dad forgot to put the lid on the bromine water,' she said, her voice muffled. 'Now the kitchen's gone smelly.'

Movement stirred beside John.

'Evie, put that bromine down!' Sherlock yelled, springing out of bed. He skirted the bed before snatching it from her fingers.

'Why, what's the matter?' John said, confused.

'It's a harmful irritant, go and wash your hands!' he said breathlessly, steering Eve out of the room. She shifted her chin , freeing the neckline of her pyjama top.

'Sherlock!'

'I know I know I'm sorry!' he gabbled pinching the very cap of the bromine and bolting from the room.

John sighed heavily.

On the one hand, Sherlock was very careful when it came to the safety of Eve; when they'd first brought her home he'd padded the corners of every table and struggled with fitting baby gates at the top of the stairs. Any toy she played with was immediately sterilized when she tried chewing it and it had become a second nature to put the seatbelt on her, even though she was more than capable of doing it herself.

On the other, John was surprised she'd survived this long; there had been at least three incidents when Sherlock had accidently left her alone whilst solving a case, only to panic massively between deductions, yelling out 'Shit, I forgot Evie!' rather than getting them any closer to solving the case.

But Eve had a healthy weld between extreme intellect and common sense, something her father did not possess. She was rather aware that her home was a veritable war-zone, and had instinctively been able to identify a threat when she saw one, and all whilst acting cheerful.

When John had finally got himself up and dressed he walked into the hallway to see Sherlock holding Eve's head whilst gently dribbling water into her eyes. 'Jesus Christ, how bad is it?'

'Not too bad. Her eyes were stinging but she didn't touch any of it. It's probably made her cough a little.' He finished, letting go of her head as she blinked heavily. 'You alright?'

She nodded, reaching a hand up to rub her eyes.

'Put your pyjamas straight in the wash, ok?'

'Yeah… and you were a very silly man for leaving out bromine water.'

Sherlock sighed. 'It's almost eight o clock and you're not dressed.'

'I'll speed dress!' she said suddenly, darting into her bedroom and slamming the door behind her. Sherlock shook his hands free of the water as John raised an eyebrow.

'She's kind of right you know, you _were_ a silly man.'

'I'll remember for next time. My mind was a little… occupied.' His face twisted into a tempting grin, one that drove John to move closer. He leaned up to kiss Sherlock's mouth before whispering sensually: 'You smell of bromine water.' He spluttered into a little laugh.

'You smell of sweat and gay sex.'

'You really know how to switch on romance don't you?'

'Oh, like a tap,' he whispered one last time, before giving John another hasty kiss.

'Ready!' a little voice piped up from behind them. John turned to see Eve standing with her rucksack, eyes bleary and hair a frizzy mess.

'You haven't done your hair… Sherlock?'

'Hmm?'

'The bobbles are in the kitchen.' John pushed past him to get to the bathroom. He began to brush his teeth.

Once ready, he walked into the kitchen to see Sherlock's face twisted in concentration, tying bands in Eve's hair. There was an urge to burst out laughing when she turned to face him; there was one great fat plait on one side of her head, the other holding a skinny little sliver of a brown braid. Sherlock stood back, rubbing his hands on his back and looking at John as if to say: "I tried, I really did but what witchcraft is this?"

'Come here, sweetheart,' John said, holding out his hand for Eve to take. She hopped off her chair and snatched up her rucksack. 'We'll fix that on the way.' He shook his head at Sherlock who shrugged helplessly.

'Bye Dad!'

'Goodbye Evie.'

'Please do be careful with the bromine because sometimes it can get into your lungs and I love you very much.' Sherlock chuckled at her dear concern.

'I'll be careful.'

* * *

><p>'You're sure it's a serial kidnapper?'<p>

_'__Yes,'_ Sherlock insisted. 'We need more people working on this case; the sooner we actually realize these events are linked the closer we'll be to actually _achieving_ something.'

Lestrade scratched the back of his neck, blowing out heavily through his lips. John and Sherlock were standing next to him, leaning over his cluttered desk.

In the past three months, over fifty young girls had disappeared.

'You sure none of them have ran away?' Sherlock sighed.

'_Run_ away… And no, running away is for teenage girls who usually resurface in a couple of days; the age of these children ranges from three to seven. There's probably a group of kidnappers working on this.' As he was talking he began touching the edges of the crumpled map that was laid out on the table. Lestrade had highlighted separate streets where the children were last seen. 'There's a nice smattering of location choices… Any pattern in the race of the children?'

'No.'

'Any pattern in the build?'

'None.'

'Okay. Well as senior officer I suggest you gather a team of about twenty and start forking out jobs to them.'

Lestrade sighed again. 'Fine then. I take it you want to be in on the action as well? Or are you just going to drift in and out of the office at inconvenient times?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Don't pretend you don't need my help; it's been three months and you haven't found anything!'

'Sherlock,' John said gently touching his arm. The detective looked, confused at his face.

One thing that he would always be confused by is what John wanted him to do when he gave him that long stare. It was like trying to figure out what his baby daughter was crying for.

'What?'

'Indoor voice please.'

'Wow; fatherhood has really left a mark on you, hasn't it?'

Lestrade cleared his throat. 'You wanted me to "fork out jobs?"'

'Yes, try and interview as many parents as you can.'

'I've already done that.'

'Then look over the notes and try and see if there are any patterns. Can I have a list of names and addresses?'

Another sigh, this time accompanied with the sound of a drawer opening as Lestrade lifted out a wad of paper scraps. He handed them to Sherlock, who attempted to hand them back.

'What?'

'Try and get someone to alphabetize them, at least.' They were pushed firmly into Sherlock's palm.

'That'll be your job then, Mr. Smart Arse.'

'What? Well… no, no, I need to do my_own_ investigating!'

'You can be a part of this case on one condition: You get this organized as I round up a team. And don't go swanning off anywhere either.'

Sherlock scowled. 'Fine,' he said, roughly shoving the wad of paper into his pockets.

From his side, John inhaled loudly. Sherlock knew by now that this was his signal to look over at him. 'Yes?'

'I'd better be leaving now.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, it's two,' he muttered, turning the face of his watch for Sherlock to see.

'What time will you be home?'

'I dunno around… sixish? I think we'll have a takeaway tonight.' He was already shrugging on his coat. Sherlock had retrieved the papers from his pocket and was now shifting through them. John paused, trying to catch his attention. 'Sherlock?'

'Mmm?'

'You won't forget, will you?'

A pause. John sighed. '_Sher_lock?'

'No? I said no.'

'Sure you did,' John muttered, but once again he was smiling. He briefly walked up to Sherlock and pecked him on the cheek, only to be greeted with a vacant turn of the head.

As the door shut behind him, Sherlock turned his head to smile; in spite of what he'd thought, wedlock really did suit him.

**Just a cheeky Conan Doyle reference there for my brothas *fist bumps you* ha ha, I'm so alone…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Just a heads up, strong themes of child sexualization here. If it's a topic that may make you incredibly upset, please miss this one out because I love you all and would hate to upset you.**

**Reviews would be lovely**

* * *

><p>Eve sighed heavily.<p>

The air outside was bitterly cold, the sky blood red, the dark outlines of tall branches combing the clouds. She checked her watch. 3:30

Dad wasn't here yet.

She was leaning against the side of the year six classroom, opposite the monkey bars and out of sight from her teacher. If there was one thing she'd learned at all that year it was that teachers flip out if parents are late.

Charlotte and all the other children had long since gone, lost in a scramble of red-cheeked mothers and excessive knitwear. When leaving, Charlotte had yelled 'Catch you later alligator!' before waving and shaking her head to let the pink pom-pom she was wearing as a wig fall to the floor.

Charlotte really was beginning to grow on Eve. This morning, she'd given her the gift of a golf ball that she'd found lying along the plain. At breaktime Eve had told her the story of how once, at Daddy's work, an old lady called Doris had managed to escape and had to be gently retrieved by John who was half way through his fish and chips. Charlotte had insisted on re-enacting the whole experience, wearing her bright pink pom-pom wig and pretending to shuffle like an old lady as Eve searched high and low for her. It ended in a dramatic re-uniting and a gratuitous sub-plot about Doris needing a new hip, entailing Charlotte to lie out flat on a bench as Eve pretended to operate on her.

3:45

Eve sighed once again, making her breath cloud in the raw air. She rubbed her cold hands together. Suddenly the idea of her ugly school jumper seemed very appealing.

'Hello?' a voice called. Mrs. Frank, her teacher. 'Is anyone still out here?' There was a pause, before the sharp sound of a door slamming shut. Eve flinched, wishing she'd gone indoors to wait.

She lingered for one or two more minutes before it began to rain. 'Wonderful,' Eve muttered, clenching her fists. She knew where Sherlock was now; he'd be halfway through some work and will have probably forgotten all about her. It may be night-time before he'd remember to pick her up.

Torrents of freezing rain were coming down thick and fast, turning the flowerpots to muddy streams and drowning Charlotte's discarded pom-pom into the tarmac. Running, Eve climbed the three wooden steps to the year six classroom and tried shoving the metal bar to open it. Locked. Splashing back down, she attempted four more doors that led into different classrooms before realizing that teachers went home early in the last week of term. They only needed to provide children with a place to stay until quarter-to.

Eve realized a low growl, her arms white with cold, clothes plastered to her body. The sky was indigo now. Dad wasn't coming. What was she going to do? She shuffled along the empty playground to the bike stack, kneeling down to unlock hers from the chain. White hands on rusted metal.

She looked up at the school gate. She could make her own way home, couldn't she? She was smart enough to know not to get into any cars, and she knew the quickest shortcut; it would only take five minutes.

She mounted her bike, pedaling into the crammed streets of London. Turning into a side street she passed the warm glow of a Chinese restaurant window, watching as people packed away their market-stalls down the back of the Queen's Theatre. The rain was still thick, blackening the grim brick walls and casting puddles on the shiny black cobblestones. Frost clung to the wheels of bins, red lights, coal dust and KFC filling her nose. Baker Street wasn't far. Two more minutes of riding and it took her onto the main road.

* * *

><p>She was poised on her bike, one knee higher than the other so that a slant of white pants was recognizable beneath the taunt material of her lopsided skirt. She was coatless, sporting on her top half merely a white shirt that was stuck to her body with rainwater. It was transparent. Resting on her back was a fishtail plait which caused a stream of water to trickle indirectly to her grey skirt.<p>

But oh, those wet clothes. That pure, white flesh. The chink of underwear that shone between her legs. Even a strand or two of loose hair dripped with rain, landing on her childish chest like the nozzle of a broken tap. And he couldn't help himself grinning, couldn't stop the hot tide of heated blood to shiver beneath his flesh. Her childish innocence he found so endearing… and those clothes… He'd be lying if he said he didn't have a thing for school uniforms. Especially the way Eve wore it, with calf-length black cotton socks and chunky patent leather shoes. The more he pictured her, the shorter the skirt became in his mind, creeping up her thigh like groping fingers, tighter, tighter on her pale virgin skin, until the pleated fabric hardly covered her wet panties.

Man.

He needed to sort his mind out.

She turned her head from side to side, ready for the stream of cars to pass and for the road to be clear. Once the traffic lights switched she flicked the handle of her bike and forced the metal frame forwards, lifting her bottom from the seat so she could excel forwards. Each time her knee jerked upwards he craned his neck, trying to catch a flash of her underwear. There he raised his phone to eye-level, pretending to check a text, before photographing the child.

Lifting the phone down, he kept his eyes and face neutral as he flicked through the pictures. His eyes shot upwards, catching one last glimpse of the kid before she cycled away down the street.

**Sorry if that was a little jarring *shudders* **

**Reviews would be much appreciated. **


	4. Chapter 4

Rain pelted the windows of 221b.

Sherlock sighed, lifting his fingers to his head. He'd managed to single out two interviews that seemed similar, and consult his homeless network on what they were looking for.

Apart from that, nothing.

The door clattered open, revealing a rain-soaked John. He was holding two bags of Chinese takeaway. 'Hey,' he mumbled, shuffling past Sherlock to place the bags on the table. He took off his coat and gloves, drew up a chair and sat beside him.

'Anything new?'

'No.' Sherlock was still looking at his notes. He clicked a pen, making it bounce once before scribbling something down.

'Right.'

A long, painful pause.

'Sooo…' John rubbed his hands together. 'How was Eve?'

Sherlock stopped. He raised his head.

'What?' his voice was low, dangerous. John's face fell.

Sherlock stood slowly. It felt as if the world was crashing in on itself as the first wave of panic hit him.

'Sherlock… what is it?'

Nausea, panic, dread and ice-cold fear seemed to blast him from the side.

'Sherlock?' John gasped. 'You haven't…' his voice rose. 'You… _did you forget Eve?!' _

Sherlock seemed oblivious to John's shouting. 'I…' He opened and closed his mouth but no words came out.

'Oh!' John gripped his head with his hands, anger and fear swelling inside him. 'Sherlock…. SHERLOCK!' he grabbed his husband's hand. 'DID YOU FORGET EVE?!'

Keep calm now.

Calm, Sherlock, that's the best thing you can do.

Think.

_Think._

'I…' His heart began racing. 'She…She might be here,' he muttered. Refusing to acknowledge what he already knew, he went into the well-practiced medical emergency mode. He scoured the flat to exclude all other possibilities, ticking boxes he knew deep down were already ticked. Fear bloted through him. Icy fear. Dear God, no! _Please no!_

He searched bedrooms, cupboards, wardrobes, under desks, under tables, in and out of the kitchen. 'EVE!' He called, before hurtling through the flat again, checking it in a mere fifteen seconds.

After what seemed like hours of searching, he was forced into the kitchen, forced to face the chilling truth. Eve wasn't here.

The grey corridor seemed to contort as he panted, panic haring through him, red-hot panic.

Where was she?

Why wasn't she here?

Did she get into a car?

Did Charlotte's Mum take her home?

Did one of the teachers take her home?

Did she try and make her own way home?

Or, the most terrifying conclusion,

Does Eve make fifty-one?

'No,' he whispered, shaking his head. No. She can't. Not Eve. Not our little girl. Not Eve.

By this time John was in hysterics. 'WHERE IS SHE?!' He screamed.

'John, please, we have to stay calm—'

'STAY CALM?! THERE'S A SERIAL KIDNAPPER ON THE LOOSE! OUR DAUGHTER'S MISSING! YOU WANT ME TO STAY CALM!'

John's face was twisted in anger. He breathed deeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth. 'What…' his voice sounded spent, tired, grey. 'What do we do now?'

Sherlock paused, biting his lip.

'The school,' he muttered. 'She might still be at the school…'

He grabbed John's arm, pushing him through the door. Mrs. Hudson materialized in the hallway. 'What's going on?' she asked.

'Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Eve?'

'Eve? No love, I don't think I have…'

'Shit, Sherlock!'

'Calm down, John!'

'I'm not calming down!' Again, Sherlock caught him by the wrist, tugging him out into the rainy pavement. 'Oh, Jesus Christ Sherlock!' John cried, lifting two hands up to clad his face. 'She wasn't even wearing her jumper, she wasn't even wearing her jumper!'

Sherlock hailed a small black cab. As they climbed into the back he took a gentle hold of John's shoulders. 'John,' he said quietly. His heart was beating so loudly that it seemed to drown out his own voice. 'You_need_ to stay calm… she might be fine for all we know,'

'And if she isn't?!'

He paused. Swallowed. 'Then keeping calm is the best thing we can do.' Sherlock sat back in his seat, telling the cabbie the address of the school.

As he glanced out of the window at the dark, dark night, he caught his own reflection numerous times; he was biting his nails, his expression twisted in fear. He rubbed his knee.

She had to be at school.

She _had_ to.

Beside him, John was jogging his legs restlessly. 'She won't have gotten into a car,' he said to himself. 'She won't… she's smart… she won't have gotten into a car.'

The streets were glistening with silvery rain. Dark figures skulked the roads, heads down; a little girl would be so out of place here.

_Wherever she is, she's safe._

She had to be.

She _had _to be.

The night was windy and cold; All Sherlock could think about was how chilly she must be in her school uniform, how he wished he would have given her some thick tights to wear, a coat, at least.

The cab pulled up.

John was first out, haring along the empty playground. 'EVE!' he shrieked. 'EVE!'

Sherlock was soon to follow. The asphalt was an industrial, treacle-black, one long ribbon of moonlight streaked along it. His shadow stretched out in front of him, long limbs, head the size of a tennis ball.

John came at a stop near the year six portakabins. He was panting, hands on his knees, facing the primary-coloured monkey bars that were now rusted and frosty. 'The bike…' he panted. Sherlock ran to the bike stack. From a distance it was notably empty, but he still looked behind it, as if searching for a sign of Eve.

He stopped.

The red-hot blood in his veins ran ice-cold. He was suddenly aware of the bitter wind that snapped at his coat lapels.

His little girl was gone.

His heart lurched for a second as the full horror of the situation slammed into him. John approached next to him. He was shaking.

'What now Sherlock?' he asked, his voice weak. Sherlock turned slowly, in contrast to the fear that was shearing through his body.

'… let's call Lestrade.' He faced John, who's expression was falling into despair. Sherlock saw his eyes glisten with tears.

'Ok,' he said, nodding. 'She might still be ok, mightn't she?'

'Yeah.'

'She might have gone home with Charlotte's Mum, right?'

'Right.' He was trying desperately hard to off-set the negative voice that was taunting his head "She's gone, she's gone!"

Oh God… what could be done now? What _should_ be done now? Sherlock of all people should know this.

John shakily took his phone from his pocket, punched in Lestrade's number. As the phone rang he shifted from foot to foot. The panic was still fresh within them; Sherlock just wanted to move. He wanted to help. Every second Eve was not with them made his stomach lurch.

* * *

><p>She was gone.<p>

She was number fifty-one.

The fact was soon realized.

The minute John had entered the office he'd broken down, in a state too harrowing for Sherlock to bear. He was trying to evade panic, but nothing could stop the silver seams of tears to thread his face. The more he talked, the more he felt his throat fill with grief. Getting heavier and heavier, until he could hardly breathe.

The sobbing took him entirely by surprise.

He was mid-sentence when he suddenly let out a loud cross between a laugh and a cry. It didn't take long until he too was distraught. He clutched a hold of John and the two sank to their knees together.

It felt as if the ground could have swallowed them up.

The police had sent teams to search the streets near the school. Outside in the dark, their voices too loud, too real.

'Eve?' the voice of strangers. The voices that had sought out dead bodies, rape victims. The voices that did this everyday. 'Eve? Evie? Evelyn? Eve Holmes? Eve Watson?'

His own daughter's name was so oddly jarring to Sherlock. He and John searched the streets themselves, panic prowling their insides like hunger and fatigue. 'Eve, sweetheart, it's Dad!' he called, his breath fogging in the cold, cold night.

_Let her be warm. Please, please let her be warm._

Down the back of Queen's Theatre, near the Chinese restaurant, Sherlock made his first sickening discovery.

In a ginnel piled with binbags, Eve's bike lay lodged, bell broken. He hauled it from the rubbish and onto the road, gripping the metal frame for support. It was so tiny. Sherlock merely stared for a couple of seconds, blinking. The sight of it made him want to scream. She was taken by force, taken from her little pink bike with no chance of getting home.

Ten hours later.

Ten _hours. _

John lay next to Sherlock in bed. Neither could dream of sleeping. Right then, at that moment, Sherlock felt Eve's fear.

He shook violently.

'She's been taken, hasn't she?' John whispered.

Sherlock frowned. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear thinking about it.

'Well you know what they said,' Sherlock spat. 'When you're in London you're never too far away from a _rat!' _

John rolled away from him. On the bedside table were an assortment of pictures, many of baby Eve. He felt his eyes well. 'I've failed her!' he whispered, tears falling from his face. 'I've let her down Sherlock, I've failed her!'

'No, no you've not,' Sherlock said, trying to distract his own gnawing distress. He rolled over to face John, who buried his face in Sherlock's torso. As his husband sobbed gently, Sherlock tried to stoke his flaxen hair…

No, no _you_ haven't failed her John.

But _I_ have.

**I feel a bit meh about this chapter :/**

**Please review and tell me what you thought in the comments (I can't tell you how happy it makes me!)**


	5. Chapter 5

**The usual triggers, pedophilia, injury detail... Sherlock may seem a little OOC here but it'll all make sense. **

_Baby Eve had glittering eyes and a small, magical face. As she sat in her high-chair she clapped her pearly hands, grinning in such a way that one could not evade an affectionate chuckle. Sherlock picked her up. She was fat and sticky and drooling milk. She smelt good. As he lifted her he couldn't help but graze his jaw along her warm head, tickling the spiraling reams of hair that sat like curly black silk. He kissed her irresistible skin as she laughed and clapped more, kicking her strong, bendy legs. She lifted her delicate little hands and plucked at his face. 'A-bub bub bub bub,' she babbled. Sherlock released a mock growl and tilted her body way up into the air so that her legs were angled to the ceiling. She squealed in delight. Sherlock peppered her face with kisses. _

_What a perfect little human._

Sherlock opened his eyes. He hadn't slept; he'd blacked out.

John was curled away from him, asleep. As he stood he checked his phone and attempted a smile, before standing and getting dressed at the foot of the bed. John stirred, before heaving the covers from his body.

He frowned at the sight of Sherlock. 'What're you doing?' he asked. His voice was pained, weak and waterlogged.

'Getting dressed.'

'Why are you wearing a suit?'

'I always wear a suit… and I'm going on a date.'

'_What?!_' John threw himself out of bed. His eyes were red. Sherlock calmly brought his phone up to eye-level… a description of a man seen near the abduction sites of one of the girls. The homeless network had only managed to track one photograph of him in central London.

'I'm going out to Liverpool to watch Swan Lake.'

'What the _fuck_ are you talking about!?'

'It's on at the Empire; I'm meeting Colin there.'

'Who's… you know what, fuck that! We're looking for Eve today and you know we are!' His face bore such blind anger and confusion. He was still bleary from lack of sleep.

Sherlock swallowed; I f he told John the truth now it might rupture his whole plan. 'I'm sorry but I must dash, I've got a train to catch.' He took his scarf from the back of the chair and looped it around his neck, before shrugging on his coat.

'No… no, no, no, I'm not putting up with your mysterious bullshit right now Sherlock, not right now!'

'I'll be back in the afternoon.'

'No Sherlock… _Sherlock!'_

The door slammed behind him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock leaned his head against the train window, closing his eyes. There was a long vein of water stuck to it that pulsed with rain. A cheese and mayo sandwich lay split on the plastic table in front of him, in such a way that it resembled maggots festering in a wound.<p>

His eyes opened, only to check his phone again. Three missed calls from John. As well as a message from Colin: 'Hey, thanx 4 coming at such short notice, can't wait to see you therexxx'

The picture sent by the homeless network was of a man recognized as Michael Pitcher. A tall, thin man, haggard, with a scrappy unkempt beard. He had short dark hair and deeply hooded eyes, one that fit the description perfectly.

After some searching, Sherlock could only find one other picture of Michael, one of him standing outside a house, arms wrapped around a man identified as his partner, Colin Downham.

Colin; Sherlock liked to think as a male version of Molly. Meek, shy and ditzy. In many ways he was like a deer; too much fuss and he'd be scared off. That's what prevented Sherlock from getting anyone else involved.

His phone rang. Mycroft.

'Why are you calling you never call me?'

Silence.

'What do you want?'

'Sherlock… it isn't _your _ Eve is it?'

He froze. 'What? What are you talking about?'

'Sherlock, you _know_ what I'm talking about; Serial kidnappings. It's on the news. She's on the news.' Sherlock sighed, sitting back.

He wondered when the media would get involved. 'Well, is it true?'

'Obviously.'

More silence. 'I… I'm sorry then.'

The line went dead.

Media… How could he not see that coming? John was going to kill him when he got home.

* * *

><p>It was an open room, steel and lilac velveteen chairs clumped tastefully around round varnish tables. A large bowl of purple and cream potpourri sat in the middle of it, lavender and jasmine. Mirrors were dotted on the walls, ornate silver frames, varnished surface bearing the refection of a young, well-shaven pianist in a dinner-jacket.<p>

Half of the room was made up of a large glass window, catching the image of the setting sun on each of Liverpool's shimmering buildings. The wooden floors were steel grey, the sky a mellow orange. Cream poufs, opaque purple vases on black wooden tables. Around them, an assortment of humans, a woman with nice black clothes, nice blonde hair but an old, ugly face. She had an assortment of chunky silver rings and bracelets on her hands, black nail varnish, high heels and rectangular glasses artfully postured, swilling a glass of white wine. Beside her, a man sitting upright on a cream chair, wine glass between his fingers. He was fully suited, nicely combed hair, middle aged.

Opposite them, a man was perched on the edge of one of the sofas, sipping nervously from a glass of wine.

Colin.

Sherlock walked over to the bar, the pungent smell of alcohol and lime filling his nostrils. A girl with bright white skin and chin-length black curls smiled at him; she looked strangely like Eve. 'Name?'

'Wilson.' She came back a couple of seconds later with his drink. 'Thank you.'

Colin was wearing a V-necked purple sweater and trousers marked with pink glitter-glue. A daughter, most probably, about eighteen moths judging by the height of the mark. His face lit up when he saw Sherlock.

'Mr. Wilson! I thought you weren't coming… oh sorry that sounded a bit rude I just… not that I'd assume you wouldn't come I just…' he broke off the sentence, instead drinking some more wine.

Colin looked like a Pre Raphaelite woman; shapely nose, pointed chin, a soft jaw, striking Romanic side-profile and defined lips. His skin was porcelain and his eyes were a wide, pale blue. His eyelashes were long and girly, his hair mainly consisting of a chocolate-brown fringe the swiped along his forehead. The rest of his hair was short and layered.

He had a long red scar over one of his eyes, put there by a belt. It was a couple of years old, about five.

He was holding guilt. Low self-esteem. Suffered some trauma. He'd been single for a long time.

'Please,' Sherlock said. 'Call me Paul.' He held out a hand. Colin shook it; soft, petal skin. Not a manual laborer. Probably works from home.

'Paul,' he grinned. 'Anyway, thank you so much for coming.'

'My pleasure,' Sherlock leaned back, one arm slung around the back of the sofa. The more he tried to alienate his body language away from his usual mannerisms, the easier this acting malarkey became.

'So… do you come to the ballet often?'

'Me? Nah, I'm more of a musicals person myself.' Sherlock lied.

'Oh my gosh me too!' Colin shifted his knees so he was angled more towards Sherlock. 'So, what's your favorite?'

He had a second of panic before remembering the queen's theatre. 'Um… Les Miserables.'

'Mmm,' Colin nodded, mouth in his wine. He lowered it and swallowed. 'I'm a Phantom boy myself, although I do really like Into the Woods… and Wicked and Miss Saigon and Sweeney Todd and Little Shop of Horrors and West Side Story and… Oh sorry, I'm going on…'

'No, please, continue.' Violinist. Held the pen like a bow. Nails cut back on his left hand and tiny ridges on his fingers where the strings had cut into his flesh. Stay at home Dad. Baby-powder on his cuff… as he paid the bill Sherlock saw into his wallet. A picture of himself kissing the cheek of a baby girl with beautiful brown skin and black braids in her hair.

Adopted father.

'Oh, looks like that's our call,' He chuckled. 'Come on, I got us good seats.

The night was lost in a sea of twirling skirts, pointed toes and music that seemed to merge into one bland chunk of noise. Sherlock couldn't think; what if there were cameras outside of 221b, waiting? What would John do? What if Colin knows nothing helpful? How could he live with himself knowing that he'd wasted all the time he could have spent on searching for Eve?

The interval was his chance. He'd been sub-consciously scowling at Colin throughout the entire evening. His charade was wearing thin.

As Colin chattered in the Lobby, Sherlock suddenly grabbed him by the arm, hauling him out of the room and into a secluded stairwell. Colin shrieked, almost toppling over and spilling his glass of wine.

Deer in headlights.

'P-Paul? What're you doing?' his wintery eyes widened. Sherlock let go of his arm and dropped his voice.

'Listen,' he muttered. He pulled out a picture of Michael Pitcher from his pocket. At the sight of it, Colin's eyes became wider still.

'No,' he squeaked. 'No, no, no!' with each 'No' his voice rose, echoing down the empty stairwell. He tried pushing past Sherlock, only to be caught by the arm and swung back around again. He gave a light scream. 'Don't touch me!'

'Listen to me, Colin,' Sherlock said calmly, taking a step back. 'I just need to know, do you know this man?'

Colin took a second, breathing heavily. 'You're… you're not Paul are you?' this time he sounded more disappointed than scared.

'No. Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.'

'Sher… I know that name from somewhere!'

'Yes, I solve crimes. Now, I gather you know this man, Michael Pitcher. You're the only person that has been traced back to his name, therefor the only person that can really help us.'

'Help us?'

'Yes.' Sherlock glanced at his feet. 'Listen, Colin… I know you used to be his partner and this may be quite shocking to you. There have been serial kidnappings in London of young girls and this Michael Pitcher is our prime suspect.'

Colin's eyes immediately filled with tears as he pressed a hand over his mouth in shock.

'We find Michael, we find the girls. Also, I ask you as a father… I know you have a daughter at home.'

His hands tightened on the rim of his wine glass. 'You… How… You kn-know about Bianca?' he squeaked.

'Yes. Now Colin…' Sherlock lowered his head, his curls falling forwards. He cleared his throat. 'I'm a father too you know. And one of the girls that was taken was… My daughter. My _only _daughter. Eve.'

The eyes were wide and brimming again. Sherlock had him now.

'So you understand it's very important that you tell me everything you know about this man, Michael Pitcher.'

Colin sighed sadly, tears in his voice. He was a man of empathy, weak and sensitive. He wasn't a man that would fare well in Lestrade's office being questioned.

'Well…' Colin bowed his head, staring into the abyss of his wine glass.

'Well?'

'Well… I first met him five years ago. My first boyfriend… and he never really struck me as odd…' he flicked his fringe out of his eyes and swallowed. 'Non-committal… promiscuous, brave… always trying new stuff out… that was the only weird thing really, I never thought he'd stick with me for so long.'

'New stuff? What stuff?'

Colin flushed a violent shade of red. He lifted his head slowly. 'I… I'd rather not say,' he stammered taking a sip of wine and tucking a chunk of hair behind his ear.

Sherlock sighed witheringly. 'I won't go telling Mummy… now what stuff?'

'Bedroom-related stuff,' he mumbled.

'I gathered… would you care to specify?'

'Do I have to?'

'Just give me a vauge idea.'

'Ok… well a lot of…fetishes… bondage-type things. At first it was fun but then he just got weird.'

'Got weird?'

'Yes… he gained this almost sadistic sensibility, and this stormy anger. I loved him and I was new, I didn't know much about homosexual relationships. I didn't want to break it off.'

'Sadistic. This had something to do with your sex-life?'

'Unfortunately… he brought home photos for us to look at together.' Colin swallowed, the pain of the memory evident in his eyes. 'It was all self-mutilation, dislocated shoulders, feet broken at odd-angles, all that stuff seemed to turn him on.'

'You didn't smell a rat then?'

'Oh I did! And I wanted to leave him, I really did, but it was tricky… after that everything intensified and got a little frightening. That's when…' He stopped mid-sentence, as if he'd realized something awful. His pale eyes glistened. 'That's when I found his book.' His face crumpled. He lifted the wine glass to his lips and knocked back two huge gulps. Sherlock noticed his hands shake.

He exhaled, shifted his feet and continued. 'I was doing a big spring clean of the house when I noticed this book under his bed; looked like a photo album. I opened it up to see if it was empty and… saw… some really…' he paused, tears offering no distortion to his voice. 'Some really horrible things.'

'What things?'

He bowed his head, face reddened. It sounded like he was about to start sobbing any second. Sherlock craned closer. 'Some…' he whispered. 'Girls l-little girls.'

The detective stood back; the smoke seemed to clear. Everything seemed to fall into place now. He was on the right track.

'What happened then?'

'Well… I did confront him afterwards, in fact I was really hysterical. He slapped the book out of my hand and grabbed me by the wrists. Threatened me, told me to forget what I just saw… but I couldn't. I kept screaming "You're a pedophile! Oh my God Michael you're a pedophile!"… I genuinely had no idea… and then…' One long, juttering breath. 'He beat me for God knows how long. I couldn't stand afterwards; my face looked like a bloody plate of meat… When I was on the floor he threatened to kill me if I ever went to the police. He wrote me out an elaborate story of what he wanted me to say when I went to hospital. It's so weird now… I was bleeding all over our kitchen floor, lips swollen, eye bruised over… and there he was calmly writing out instructions on a little notepad.' He attempted a smile. 'After that he left and I never saw him again.'

Sherlock nodded slowly, taking it in. 'Alright,' he muttered. 'So this "Michael Pitcher"… you haven't seen him in five years?' Colin nodded.

'No… and I intend to keep it that way.'

'So you don't know where he is now?'

'No… but I do remember… my friend Michelle managed to find out where he lived just after we broke up.'

Sherlock's eyes sparked. 'Really?'

'Yeah, yeah, I'll write the address if you really want me to.'

'Yes, please do.' Sherlock took a piece of scrap paper from his pocket and handed it along with a pen. Colin scribbled a quick address down.

'I… I don't know if he's still there,' he said meekly, fiddling with the back of his waistband. 'He didn't like staying in one place for long but was pretty shit at saving money so...'

Sherlock took it from him.

'Thank you. What about his family then, do you anything about his family?' Colin shook his head.

'Like I said… not good at settling down, not sentimental in any way.' He swallowed nervously. 'Can… Can I go now?'

'Have you told me everything you know?'

'Yes! Yes I swear!'

'Fine then.'

'Oh and, Mr. Holmes?'

'Yes?'

'Good luck.'

**Allow me to take this chance to beg you for reviews. Pretty please? I also want to thank xXSherlockian GirlXx for reviewing more than once.**

**But really, this chapter was a long one and I would really really love to get some feedback. **

**Hope you all had a lovely Christmas xxx (Or Hanukah, or Yule, or other celebration.)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello again my lovely readers! I know this is sort of a quick update but I've had bits of this chapter on my files for AGES and just haven't known how to weld the whole thing together… I…I'm not very good with welding… what was I talking about?**

**Oh yeah, and this is probably the creepiest chapter and a little… well, full-on with its brutality, shall we say? **

**Basically, a pretty grim and kind of scary chapter. **

**As always, I would ADORE reviews.**

**Enjoy!**

It was late afternoon. John sat on the sofa next to Mrs. Hudson, who was gently rubbing his back. His face was in his hands.

From the doorway, Sherlock could here faint mutterings of 'Come on John, eat something, you need to eat… how about I get you some biscuits eh? Cup of tea?' John shook his head as Mrs. Hudson raised her own. She caught eyes with Sherlock and stopped. Noticing her, John lifted his head.

His face was a weak, watery mess; his brow was deeply lined, his flesh grey and his eyes pink and ringed. Tears fell like silver wire down his skin.

The minute he met eyes with Sherlock he stood erect, clenching his fists. Mrs Hudson stood, edging past him into the safety of the cluttered kitchen.

They stood facing one another, John's breath ragged, heaving in and out through his nose.

'Now… John, your angry I know, please let me explain…' John took a step forwards and Sherlock braced himself; a slap, a punch… he knew he deserved it.

What he got was much worse.

John's eyes glistened. They held such pain. He shook his head.

'Your fault.' He whispered. 'This is all your fault, Sherlock Holmes.'

Something struck him then. It felt like someone punching his ribs… His heart felt crushed, almost broken… of course it was probably just the activation of the sympathetic nervous system that took place in the bloodstream and is closely regulated by the heart… but that was a part of him that was hardly ever reached; an untouched string of his being that was now being painfully ruptured and torn.

He addressed it with a light frown. 'John,' he croaked. 'You don't understand… I was doing it to _help_ her…'

'You know how long do you really think you can push me with all this bullshit?' A short, huffy laugh. A shake of the head. 'I've put up with it since the minute I've met you but now? No… Not now Sherlock… you _need _to know when to fucking _stop.'_

He swallowed nervously as John ran a threesome of fingers through his ragged hair.

'John,' he said again. 'I… I went to Liverpool for a reason. I couldn't tell you, believe me, I could not tell you.'

'Why? Why not? When have I ever been so unreasonable? I _know_ I live in your shadow; you're the one that's constantly reminding me!'

'You might have insisted on coming…'

'No, Sherlock, if it was for the best I wouldn't have, I really, really, wouldn't have! I'm not an _idiot!' _

The detective shifted uncomfortably. 'I'm sorry John. I really am. I'm sorry.'

John stood. 'So have you actually found anything or? …'

'Yes! An address.'

Surprisingly, John's eyes lit with immediate surprise. 'What?'

'Yes, Michael Pitcher, prime suspect.'

'And you didn't tell me because…'

'Because I…'

'Oh, I remember, because I'm dumber than an ape.'

'No John look…' he took the piece of scrap paper out of his pocket and showed John the address. '…The man who gave it to me was an ex-partner of Michael Pitcher, one who wouldn't be able to function properly in a room of people… extreme social anxiety… he'd do anything to evade the police. Anything; and I got what we needed, didn't I?'

'Well, let's go!'

Sherlock frowned at John, who grabbed his coat from the back of a chair. 'R-Really?'

'Yes, it isn't far, I'm not wasting any time!'

'What about telling Lestrade? It'll be dangerous, it'll be…'

'Sherlock,' he stared him dead-on in the face. 'My daughter's life is at risk here; I think I can do "dangerous" '

Sherlock looked him in the eyes, still frowning.

'Come _on!_' he urged, impatience in his voice.

'Okay! Okay!' he hastily shrugged on his coat and ran out into the freezing rain to hail a cab.

* * *

><p>It was a grey-brick semi. Tall. Narrow. A steep, Victorian basement.<p>

From notable signs it was empty; John ploughed on ahead, the frozen grass crunching beneath his feet. Opposite the house Christmas lights were strung over gutters and low roofs, adding to the emptiness of the eerie, isolated terrain.

Sherlock approached the door.

XL Joinery External Hardwood. Cheap. Carlisle Brass Chrome Butt hinges, the type used in wardrobes; the type that was easy to bust.

Sherlock drew back, before slamming his shoulder hard into the warped wood of the door.

Ash and dust cascaded from the ceiling as one large rotten beam collapsed, landing with a thump on the carpet of the hallway.

'Shit,' he heard John mutter.

He raised his head and soon saw why: The place was a mess. More than a mess. It was hoarded; boxes were piled high , providing a difficult and narrow pathway for the two to squeeze through. The carpet was undistinguishable beneath the piles of filthy clothes and the towers of comics and books. Whilst ascending the stinking stairs Sherlock saw an assortment of porn magazines strewn in small paper tents.

The bannister too was on the brink of rot; the cream walls were now stained coffee-brown with neglect, liquor bottled clustered on each carpeted step and weights huddled in molded corners.

Sherlock lifted his head.

Something was well and truly off about the place; not just it's obvious awful state and its structure on the brink of collapse… but the sinking, quivering feeling that they weren't alone.

The eeriness alone of the squalor was enough to send one's mind racing…but the primitive instinct of another presence made Sherlock want to turn sharply. He didn't panic; panic kills neurons. But nothing could stop the shivers of distress signals slamming through the synapses of his natural reflex. Instead, he took John's arm at the top of the stairs. 'Something isn't right,' he muttered.

'You think so?'

'No, John, I mean there's someone else here.'

'Michael?'

Sherlock looked around, frowning. 'No… he would have heard us…' He then turned to John, running a quick analysis over his coat. 'Revolver.'

'What?'

'You've not got your revolver in your jacket.'

'Sherlock, I've not had the revolver in my jacket since…' he stopped himself abruptly. 'So… you…you think there's someone here?'

'Yes,' he looked around distractedly before choosing the doorway into Michael's bedroom. 'Be on your guard.'

Sherlock touched the door to the bedroom. It was jammed. With a sigh he took a step to the side and rammed his body into it, causing the door to swing open. As both men staggered inside, they were greeted with a horrific rotting smell, as well as an avalanche of comic books to fall at their feet.

'Oh Jesus Christ!' John stuffed a sleeved hand over his nose and mouth. 'What's that _smell_?' Sherlock froze. He knew what that smell was.

The room was unbelievably cluttered; typical hoarder. There were empty plastic crates piled high, boxes filled with dirty laundry and food packets littering the ground. John picked his way through the mess, hand still pressed firmly against his nose and mouth. Video games were stacked in unruly towers, some having collapsed into plastic piles. Cupboards were decorated with Legend of Zelda posters, the carpet reduced to mucky black gaps.

Sherlock, still frozen, seemed oblivious to the mess that surrounded him. He instead, very slowly, sunk low, leaning on his haunches. The smell was stronger now, horrific, pungent… flies mingled in the thick, rotting air as Sherlock kneeled and took his torch from his pocket. An unintelligible shape was made out beneath the bed as he flicked the light on.

A girl. Lying dead, her face turned away, flies swilling around her body.

'John?' Sherlock said hoarsely.

'Yeah?' John said absent-mindedly. Sherlock swallowed.

'There's a body under here.' There was a clatter of crates as John whipped around rapidly.

'What?!'

He shone the torch further beneath the bed. There were tiny little stubs where her fingers should be, her hands lying limp by her sides and her legs in a tangle. She was fair-haired, about three years old. Sherlock lowered his head. John was soon at his side. He eyed the small corpse with sorrow. 'What… what shall we do?' he asked quietly. Sherlock straightened up.

'Get around the other side of the bed and try to get some pictures of her face,' he said, his face flustered and his voice distracted. John swallowed anxiously.

'Ok.'

'I'll search the room for anything else.'

John skirted the bed, reproachfully leaning down on the other side and taking his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock hastily opened and closed cupboards. Many just contained video games. All but one, which held what looked like a pickle jar.

Squinting, Sherlock tried to decipher what was in the darkened jar. A glint of white flesh. He jerked backwards in horrified shock, heart racing.

In the jar were human fingers.

'What?' John perked his head up at his husband's shock.

'Um…' Sherlock was panting as his hands fumbled to shut the cupboard door. 'Fingers.'

John's face turned into a grimace. 'Really?'

'Yeah… John? I really want to get out of here. This whole place it's just…' he shook his head, turning to face the ceiling.

'Not before we've checked it all.' He gave one last snap on his phone before sliding it into his pocket and getting up of the ground. Sherlock wrenched the door open one last time, freeing them both from the horrible room. Once out into the hallway he breathed heavily.

'Let's have a look then,' he said, gesturing to John for the phone. John obediently flipped it out of his pocket and handed it to the detective. The girl had small pigtails in, open blue eyes that were staring straight into the camera. Her face was grubby enough to see a neat trail of tears etched down her grey, purpling flesh. 'Sophie,' he muttered. 'Sophie Young.'

John sighed sadly, switching off the phone until it rested back in his pocket. 'Where should we check next?'

Sherlock thought for a second.

'This thing has a basement, doesn't it?'

'Um… yeah,' John said reproachfully, wondering if they were on the track to more grim discoveries.

* * *

><p>The basement was cold and pitch black. Three slimy stone steps led down into the chilling space, which was again packed tightly with empty boxes. Sherlock switched on the torch, using the light to creep up the length of the dripping walls. Green moss clung to tall stone pillars and a boxy floor. Victorian structure; most likely built in 1825, around the time that the Fleet sewers were constructed…<p>

'Sherlock!' John hissed. Turning, Sherlock met eyes with John. 'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

'It sounded like someone whimpering.'

Sherlock began to breathe slowly; he may be massively asexual when it came to human emotion but he felt that whatever was making the noise he needed to mentally prepare himself for.

'Should I…' John gestured to the two cardboard boxes blocking his way. The torchlight made a neat white circle on the clammy grey.

'Go ahead.' John nudged one of the boxes aside, shining the light on what he saw.

Another girl, her wrist tethered to the stone wall. Her face was a startling pale in this light, her hair knotted and greasy. She groaned, shifting her head away from John's blinding torch, her face a grimy mess. A gag was jammed roughly between her teeth, tied so tightly that what little flesh she had on her face bulged over the taunt, grubby edges of fabric. Her legs were lying in a messy tangle, giving her an almost drugged appearance, head lolling on the black, clammy walls. She looked about Eve's age.

Suddenly she turned, her eyes widening as she fully gained consciousness. At the sight of the two men her face fell in horror and dread, as she began bucking and screaming pitifully.

'Now it's alright!' Sherlock tried to say. The gag massively restricted her but John could make out the messy syllables of the word "Mum-my." It made his own eyes sting with tears. 'We're not going to hurt you, we're here to help you, we're detectives, see?' He tried showing her his I.D badge, only to be greeted with more horrible, muffled screaming. Sherlock squinted, suddenly realizing that her neck was twisted at an odd angle.

'We swear, we're here to take you home,' John tried. He attempted to reach forwards, only to be stopped by Sherlock.

'She's traumatized,' he muttered.

'It's o-kay,' John said again, more slowly. He took a baby-step nearer, trying to reach up and untie her wrist from the wall. He was greeted with a forceful kick to the thigh. 'Alright then,' he said calmly, backing away. The girl stopped, scrambling backwards into a small ball. She was shivering violently, analyzing the situation. Her breathing became less frantic as the three merely sat there in silence.

'Can we help you now?' Sherlock asked softly.

There was no response.

'We know you've been through a lot, but we're here to help, we promise.' She tried what looked like a nod, only to be restrained by something tugging on her head. Her neck was still forced back.

'Ok, thank you.' Sherlock put the torch in his mouth, slowly leaning forwards to untie the rough rope from the child's wrist. Her arm flopped to the ground, wrist rubbed raw, hand swollen and red. John leaned forwards and pulled the gag from her mouth. She gasped, raking well-needed air into her lungs. As John turned her over he noticed that her other hand was knotted and tangled in her hair_. To stop her struggling,_ he thought.

He sighed, trying to unknot her hair from her skinny wrist without pulling too much. 'What's your name?'

She gasped, still shaking. 'M-Maggie.'

'Maggie Lee?'

'Y-yes.'

John united her long hair from around her hands, gently moving her head back into its normal stance.

Maggie Lee was a scrap of a girl, with lily-white limbs and a grubby, vomit-stained school uniform. Sherlock remembered now; she was the daughter of a small Asian family in the west of London, one of their newest missing.

'Do you know if there are any other girls in this house?' Sherlock asked, slowly but loudly.

'Sherlock,' John said gently. 'Do you think we should leave questions till later?'

Maggie gasped, her knees practically knocking. 'I came here with… he took me and Sophie…'

'Took you?' Sherlock frowned; Sophie's disappearance was no-where near Maggie's. Her eyes brimmed with tears. 'But then he took Sophie upstairs and—'

A loud creak.

All three froze.

So he was home…


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello everyone! Sorry I've been away for a bit… again, another creepy chapter, although not quite as bad as the last. **

**Enjoy!**

Sherlock and John turned simultaneously towards the open basement door, letting in a neat rectangle of yellow light. 'Sherlock!' John hissed.

'Shh.'

'Oh no, oh no, oh no!' Maggie groaned. The shivering was out of control now, her whole form wobbling dangerously. John scrambled backwards until he was sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders defensively. She forced her hands over her eyes. 'Oh no, oh no oh no oh no oh no!' Her whimpers turned to feeble shrieks as Sherlock stood, before flicking off the torch.

_'__Sherlock!' _John hissed again, as Maggie screamed in reaction to the darkness. He could feel her long, deer-like arms wrap around his middle as she buried her face into his jumper; he felt as if he were holding a trapped baby bird.

'Ma-ggie…' Footsteps. Michael's taunting voice traveling into the basement. A great hush fell over the two adults as Maggie resumed her quiet whimpering into the fabric of John's shirt.

'He's coming,' she sobbed. John gently placed a hand on the back of her soft head.

'Magg-ie—' His darkened silhouette came into focus at the dark doorway. He was tall. Intimidating. He stopped suddenly. 'Maggie?' Voice ringing. 'Maggie, why is this door open?'

John could see Sherlock shift silently, flattening himself against a cold, slimy wall. John himself got to his feet, picking Maggie up and carrying her into a corner, behind one of the boxes.

Michael took one menacing step onto the first stair. 'That was a bad thing to do Maggie,' he was still talking softly. 'You've made very angry… You _know_ what happens when I get angry…'

John's heart was racing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her shady form curled tightly, trying not to jog the cardboard with her trembles.

Michael had walked himself to the centre of the room. He turned his head from side to side and sighed. 'It looks like Maggie isn't where I left her.' One more step. Another and their cover would be blown.

'She can't have been gone long though; she's only just pissed herself.' John could see Sherlock's face opposite him. He was scowling, his eyes trained on Michael like a predator ready to attack.

'I'll take a little finger or a little toe if need be.' His voice was hardening now. He was getting angry. From John's right, Maggie gave a tiny squeak of fear, only to clap her hand to her mouth. Michael whipped around furiously. Sherlock saw his chance.

Michael was on the ground in less than a second. He gave a scream as the air was knocked out of him, his shoulder colliding with the hard concrete.

The screaming pursued as he gasped for air, Sherlock kneeling on top of him and giving him one hard punch in the face. His hands scrambled upwards in the dark, trying to feel for Sherlock, only to be punched again, harder. Maggie was still sobbing.

But it didn't take long for him to get his bearings. He seized Sherlock by the coat lapels, wrenching his body into the air and throwing him into one of the cardboard boxes. With a painful smack, Sherlock sent an avalanche of cardboard down on top of him.

John pelted forwards as Michael began to slowly pick himself up. 'Maggie!' Michael hissed. 'Where the fuck are you?' John pinned his head to the ground again. Not expecting the attack, there was another scream, before the doctor pulled back his hand and punched him square in the throat.

There was a desperate gasp for air before Michael's head fell, with a soft thump, and landed on the ground.

Panting, John got to his feet. Sherlock stood slowly, brushing little pigments of ash from his body. They met, standing around Michael's silent body.

'Fractured trachea?'

'Yep.'

'Should be out for a good half hour then.'

Maggie was crying softly. John went to retrieve her, slowly helping her to her feet. He took her by the hand, slowly leading her out of the basement. 'I'll call the police,' he called. Sherlock didn't respond. He instead leaned down next to Michael, frowning. 'Be careful, Sherlock,' he said, before taking Maggie into the hallway.

She gripped tightly onto his hand, squinting in the sudden light. He struggled with the front door, kicking another empty cardboard box out of the way.

Soon they were both outside, in the freezing winter air. 'What now?' Maggie asked. Her breathe fogged.

'We're going to call for the police.' She let out a sigh of relief.

'Can I go home then?'

'Of course you can…' John began punching in the number. 'Hello? Yes, police please. We've uncovered a missing child and her kidnapper. No no, she's safe… and he's unconscious.' He told them the address, before sliding the phone back into his pocket.

There was a pause.

'Will he wake up?' She squeaked.

'No, he definitely won't.'

'How do you know?'

'I'm a doctor, I know how to fracture people.'

'Are… are my Mummy and Daddy okay?'

'They're fine, sweetheart… they've been worried sick about you.' Something sparked in his mind. He brought the phone back out of his pocket, scrolling through his contact list.

'What are you doing?'

'Would you like to have a speak with your Mummy?' Her face lit up.

'Yes! Yes please!'

'Ok then, hang on.' He jabbed the call button, putting the phone to his ear. 'Hello?'

'Hello?' the voice on the other end was male; fatigued and anxious. 'Mr. Watson, is something wrong?'

'No, actually Mr. Lee…,' John glanced down at Maggie's beaming little face. 'We've found Maggie. She's safe.'

All of a sudden there was a scream from the other end. John had to move the receiver away from his ear. '_Maggie's alive!? Oh thank God thank God thank God!'_ Lee sounded so overjoyed it was almost saddening. His voice held no definition anymore; it was just elated, screeching noise. '_Where is she?!_' Mrs. Lee's happy screaming came invading in from beside his voice.

'She's right here, I'll put her on now.' He passed the phone to a jumping Maggie.

'Mummy? Daddy?' More muffled screaming. 'Mummy I'm safe now I'm safe!' She was squealing, in spite of the tears and vomit that coated her face. John felt his eyes well. He was silently begging with each atom in his body that he and Sherlock would have the same good fortune as the Lees.

Police sirens.

The familiar yellow-and-blue lights came flashing down the lane as John turned towards the house. He put a hand on Maggie's shoulder and squeezed it gently as she nattered long and hard with her parents. A policeman stood out of the door carrying a blanket. He made his way towards Maggie, kneeling down to her level. 'Maggie, I think you should come off the phone for a minute now,' John prompted gently. She nodded.

'Mummy, Daddy, the policeman's here… bye-bye, Love you both…' She pressed off and passed the phone back up to John. More policemen and women were unloaded from the car. There was a low muttering of "are you alright?" to Maggie, until an officer with choppy dark hair approached John. She was tall, her features large but attractive.

'Sir, are you the person that called us?'

'Um yes… and Michael's just through here, in the house.'

'Alone?'

'No, um, my husband Sherlock's with him,' John muttered distractedly, already making his way up the frozen path. His heart pounded in worry. What if he'd already woken up? What if Sherlock was in danger?

'You said he was unconscious didn't you?' the officer repeated, following.

'Yeah, it all should be fine.' There was a long pause, in which John looked back to check on Maggie. They were out of earshot. 'Hey… look,' he said, his voice low. The officer stopped at the door.

'Is something wrong?'

'It's just that… the body of Sophie Young was found in the bedroom.' She lowered her dark eyes, nodding slowly.

'I see,' she muttered sadly.

Another pause. John let his shoulder's fall, shook his head, and then pushed the door.

To his surprise, Sherlock stood in the doorway.

'Sherlock?' The detective was holding the arm of an unconscious Michael. The officer took two huge steps backwards, speaking loudly into the receiver on the breast of her shirt:

'We have the criminal here, at the doorway, please clear the area and bring two assisting officers, thank you.'

More sirens wailed. An ambulance.

'Is the girl still around?' Sherlock craned his neck past John. Maggie was being lifted into the back of an ambulance by one of the paramedics. Her little school-shirt rumpled as she did so.

'She's… Sherlock, why is he here?!'

'Well I had to be ready didn't I?' The officer's radio crackled as two policemen came darting up the path. They approached, panting, their cheeks rosy.

'We'll take him,' one said, shoving past the female officer. Sherlock sighed, before obediently transferring Michael's lean arm onto one of the policemen. His head stirred groggily. He cracked one eye open.

'Where… where am I?' he mumbled. The younger policeman handcuffed him.

'Michael Pitcher, I am arresting you for kidnapping.'

'What?'

But before he could say anymore, he was being led down the pathway and into a police car.

John looked up at Sherlock who was staring straight ahead, a frown on his face. He stepped out of the doorway to make way for two more officers.

Then, without a word, he placed a hand between John's shoulder-blades and slowly led him down the path and into the eerie, empty pavement.

**Thank you so much for reading and reviews would be very, VERY much appreciated! ****J**


	8. Chapter 8

**REALLY SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED! **

**My laptop basically had a massive brain-fart and was out of order for a week or two... So I'm sorry I couldn't update or reply to reviews! (having said that, thank you xXSherlockianGirlXx _again _for reviewing, you've been an absolute angel, and for the guest review that I couldn't have replied to anyway. Thank you so much!)**

**Hopefully it will all be back to normal soon. It's been a big hassle uploading this chapter but I've loved writing it, as always (:**

**Enjoy!**

The room was uncomfortably hot.

Sherlock sat across from Michael. Both faces were impassive, intelligent, brains working overtime behind them.

Michael exhaled loudly. Sherlock had begged Lestrade for this opportunity, for this interview, anything he could do to break the man he would… but Pitcher wasn't speaking.

The detective turned his gaze towards the assisting officer; She was scrappy, young, with a blonde ponytail and large brown eyes_. Can't wait for the holidays_ Sherlock thought_. Lucky Bugger_.

Two minutes passed. The clock ticked. Michael sat back, stretching his arms out behind his head. 'I know you think that not saying anything will keep you out of trouble,' Sherlock muttered, 'but we still have reason to arrest you on the abduction of Maggie Lee and Sophie Young.'

Michael laughed. It was a laugh that said _Wow, you really are stupid_. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Mr. Holmes, I have no intention of denying what I've done,' he said, glancing tiredly at his hands. 'I'm rather proud of it infact… three months I had the little bitches in my bed, and not a breath of word from the police.' His eyes changed. Something flickered within them, just fleetingly; fear. He brought his hands back and ran his fingers through his knotted hair.

Sherlock's heart was racing. They were so close now, so close to finding Eve.

'Do you admit to kidnapping Sophie Young and Maggie Lee?' The smile was back again. Michael was marveling at Sherlock's ignorance. Toying with him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. 'No…' he muttered. 'Not both of them… just… Just Sophie?'

A satisfied nod. A smirk. Michael was enjoying this.

'Maggie was taken by someone else. You traded with them… argued a good price?'

Another nod.

'There's a big group of you but you work closely. Everyone knows what the other is doing.'

'Very _good,' _Michael said. His eyes were green and sly. 'I was beginning to doubt the famous detective.'

Sherlock thought for a second. After a beats pause he continued. 'Generic statements; pedophile networks are some of the most reliable and sophisticated motors ever to run their course.' Michael was tapping one finger on the table. 'And if one of them puts a single toe out of line…' Michael stopped, slamming his thumb down hard, as if squashing an ant. 'Typical,' Sherlock muttered. 'You all think you're _so _original.'

'Can't argue with what works.'

'Indeed.'

'And sitting me in this room and having a staring contest… how's that working?'

'Well I'd love to argue…'

'But if you put a toe out of line,' the thumb came down again. He'd hit his hand so hard that it was a wonder it wasn't broken. 'This case means a lot to you, doesn't it? I can tell… you're not supposed to be here. It's usually some fat wanker with a notepad.'

'Either that or you read the news.'

He smiled again.

'So about this network,' Sherlock said. 'Are you going to co-operate or do we have to starve you out for a couple of days?'

Michael laughed. 'Think the government might have a bit of a problem with that, don't you?'

'My brother _is _the government.'

Another pause. Michael's tongue probed the inside of his cheek. 'Torture won't work on me, Mr. Holmes. I'd just enjoy it.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He needed to get some information out of him and fast; everything else was trivial.

'Do you want to know why I do what I do?' Michael sat back in his chair. Sherlock sighed heavily.

'I don't really care,' he muttered.

'Well,' Michael leaned forwards on the table, pursing his hands. 'A lot of the things we're sexually attracted to are primal things, for example: a man likes a woman with large hips because she can bear his children better… it's all about reproduction.'

'Six-year-olds can't reproduce,' Holmes said bitterly.

'A-ha, but youth is _one_ of those attractive, primal elements. It's normal for a man to like young girls the same way it's normal for a man to like female breasts, again with the reproduction thing… but only a few men like the incredibly _exaggerated_ version of large breasts; you know, the boob-fetish community.'

A pause.

'Are you quite finished?'

'No. See some men like exaggerated sexual organs the same way they like exaggerated youth. You can't help what you're into I mean,' he gave a quick, huffy laugh 'you're a faggot, for fucks sake!'

He gave a slow, tired blink. Michael leaned ever-closer, his eyes narrowing. 'I can't help liking children, Mr. Holmes, the same way you can't help liking men.'

'If we must discuss this, may I point out that I don't go around _raping_ men.'

'And I wouldn't rape children if there was a child who'd want to sleep with me.'

'Well you rather enjoy tying them up in your basement, mutilating them, murdering them and torturing them, don't you?'

'There was no outlet for me; those were just bad habits.'

'Oh I _am_ sorry,' Sherlock said sarcastically. 'I'll have the council create a sadist support group.'

Michael let out a great sigh, sitting back in his chair. He swiveled on it a few times, eyeing Sherlock with almost a look of contempt. 'So did you want me to answer some questions?'

'Yes. We'd like to know is you recognize any of these girls,' he reached into his pockets, pulling out a thick wad of photographs. They landed with a slap on the table, face-up with a picture of a blond girl wearing a princess dress and pink butterfly face-paint. Michael took his time straightening up and leaning over to touch the edges of the paper. He looked from Sherlock to the photographs, smirked, and took them in his clammy palm.

Sherlock glared as he flicked through each one, the smirk still on his face. Sometimes his eyes would spark or he'd mutter a quiet laugh. After about one minute he stopped, staring at one of the girls. His eyes rotated between the detective and the girl.

'Well?'

Michael slid the picture out, showing it to Sherlock.

It was Eve.

Sherlock swallowed.

'You recognize her?' he asked, trying to remain calm.

Michael chortled. 'Must be fresh out of your wallet, this one,' he tapped her face.

'Do you recognize her?' he repeated, irritation creeping into his voice.

'Oh yeah,' he licked his lips, dropping the photos out onto the table. They splayed like a deck of playing cards, the faces of stolen daughters. 'I recognize all of them.'

Panic flared in Sherlock's stomach. 'You do? How?'

'Because I've fucking _raped_ them all!' He threw his head back and laughed. Sherlock dug his nails into his pale wrist.

'Michael,' he said calmly, who was still laughing. His laughs slowly petered into silence.

'Oh Sherlock,' he said, still smiling. He shook his head. 'You have no clue what you're getting yourself into do you?' he leaned forwards, face close to Sherlock's who jerked away in surprise. 'I'm but a cog in a very large and very intricate clockwork of criminals… I mean nothing to you! I won't make you any closer to finding your precious daughter!'

'I think I'll be the judge of that.'

'Believe me; you may be smart but hundreds of us combined makes us so much smarter!' he was hissing now, still face-to-face. 'The minute you lock me away, another pedophile will be in need of a child… and believe me, we will welcome him with open arms!'

'Who is 'we?''

'We circulate in a very close-knit community; you were right…we all know what everyone else is doing,' Michael's voice was beginning to heighten in pitch, as if he were about to burst into tears. His eyes bore a maddening, saddening glint. 'That's why I'll never walk out of here!'

'You fucking well won't!'

'No!' he suddenly seized hold of Sherlock, dragging him up off his chair. Before he could react, he was tightly embraced in Michael's arms. The assisting officer bolted towards the two as tears fell from Michael's eyes and he whispered 'I'll never walk out of here _alive!_' Before Sherlock could blink or struggle, a gun was whipped out from down the neck of Michael's shirt and jammed into the roof of his mouth.

_'No!'_ Sherlock's scream coupled with a loud bang as the assisting officer hauled their bodies apart just in time. They both flew apart, blood shooting in the air from the back of Michael's skull as his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed to the ground, the gun spiraling from his bloody hand.

Panting, Sherlock gathered himself to his feet, along with the assisting officer. 'Are you okay?' she asked, breathless, but the detective's eyes were pinned on the dead man at his feet, anger filling his face.

'What's going on!?' it was Lestrade, who'd materialized at the open door, his eyes wide. They became wider when they fell on Michael. 'Jesus Christ!'

All of a sudden he felt strong hands on his shirt, and turned to see the livid face of Sherlock. _'Why didn't you check him?!'_ he shrieked, shaking Lestrade roughly. Bewildered, Lestrade struggled._ 'That's your job isn't it?! Why didn't you check to see if he had a gun?!'_ The panicked assisting officer came between them, roughly yanking Sherlock's hands away from the neck of Lestrade's shirt.

A second passed as Sherlock slowly staggered backwards, panting, until his back met with the wall. Lestrade kept his distance, straightening his shirt. 'I'm sorry Sherlock,' he said slowly. The assisting officer was still between them, slowly turning her head between both men, ponytail swishing as she did so. Still panting, Sherlock closed his eyes, turning his pained expression to face the ceiling. 'We did check him, I… I don't know how he managed to sneak a gun past us—'

'It doesn't matter anyway,' Sherlock muttered, dropping his head to stare at Michael. 'He wasn't going to tell us anything... He was too scared; if he managed to get out of here he'd be eradicated by the mother ship. That's how these things work. Micheal was being followed from the moment he left his house. It's typical of any gang of criminals. Each member has their own guardian angel with a gun.'

The assisting officer gently let her outstretched arms fall. 'How about we step outside, eh?' she said softly. Sherlock looked up. 'I'll make us a cup of tea.'

**Again, reviews would be very much appreciated especially as to how much fuss this chapter took ;D**


	9. Chapter 9

Michael Pitcher was a liar.

That's what Sherlock thought as he sat jogging his knee in the waiting room of Scotland Yard. He couldn't have touched Eve; pedophiles favor the innocence of children. Pedophilia could be a hugely prominent attraction to virginity. If Eve were to have any worth in this mess then she couldn't have been tainted in any way.

It gave Sherlock a short bout of relief to think that his daughter may still have her virginity intact, but he knew that it wouldn't stay that way for long. Eve could be anywhere by now. She could have been sold to anyone.

He bowed his head before standing slowly. His hands still shook from the shock of Michael's death. He watched them as he opened the door into Lestrade's office.

Lestrade was sitting at Michael's computer looking like he was about to cry. His hands were pursed by his mouth and his eyes were glued to the screen, eyebrows laced in sadness. 'Oh,' he said, noticing Sherlock. 'Hi.'

'Have you found anything?'

Lestrade took his hands from his mouth and turned the laptop so that it was facing the detective.

A girl of about seven was lying naked on a bed. Sherlock quickly turned his head from the screen. Shock seemed to have slapped him in the face for the second time that day.

'There are hundreds like that,' Lestrade said sadly. 'They're all grade 4 stuff.'

'Have you…' Sherlock swallowed, his eyes still angled away from the laptop. 'Have you found anything about the network?'

Lestrade blew out through his lips. 'We've installed some software to try and hack into his internet history.'

He typed something into the keyboard of the computer as Sherlock came to join him.

'How very traditional,' Sherlock muttered. 'He's labeled it as "work stuff".' Lestrade turned his head slightly.

'Um… Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'You know you don't have to see this, don't you?'

'Because you think I might see Eve on his computer and make a scene?'

He fidgeted in his seat for a second. 'Well… yeah.'

Sherlock inhaled. 'I'm sure I can manage Graham.'

'Greg.'

'Yeah. That.'

The website they found seemed like a strange hybrid of a chatroom and a porn site; it took some digging to finally find some evidence of the girls.

Someone had taken the liberty of constructing a page of faces… they found Maggie's immediately.

'Maggie Lee, six years old, sold…' Lestrade turned to Sherlock, a mixture of graveness and confusion on his face.

'Lauren Bell, eight years old, Unclean.' Sherlock felt the colour drain from his face.

'Unclean, does that mean—'

'Yes.'

'Oh…' Lestrade lifted his hands and dragged it over his face. '_Je_sus!' The detective swallowed nervously, continuing to click through the disturbing profiles. It was as if his hands couldn't stop.

'Annabel Roth, seven years old, unclean.'

'Jesus.'

'Malorie Howards, six years old, unclean,'

'Jesus!'

'Carly Bennet, _five _years old, unclean,'

Lestrade stood, walking briskly to the other side of the room. He didn't say a word but Sherlock could tell how distressed he was. He could hear the shuffle of fingers as he bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

Looking back, Sherlock continued to read out again. He knew already that whatever he was going to find he wasn't going to like. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and his heart pounding beneath his shirt… but he just couldn't steady the frantic tap of the mouse.

'Cassie Larkin…' he clenched his face as he read her age. '_Three years old… _unclean.'

_'__Christ, stop reading them Sherlock!_' Lestrade bellowed. He was by his side, his face massively maladjusted and troubled.

Sherlock clicked once more.

He knew her little face immediately.

He knew those sweet blue eyes… only now they were blurred and murky. He knew those zealous black curls… only now they were unkempt and tangled. And he knew that smiling mouth, only now it was imprisoned beneath a gag of duct tape.

His heart seemed to freeze in his chest. The room contorted and his throat was plugged with a suffocating lump… although he never had a chance to pause. He continued to talk, his voice like a runaway train that didn't know when to stop.

'Eve Holmes, six years old, unclean.'

Lestrade turned slowly, his face full of sorrow. Sherlock, still dazed, his eyes fixed on the screen, fell hunched-over into Lestrade's seat.

The words burned on the screen. Unclean. In what way? _How_ unclean? By how many people?

His eyes scanned over a brief description of her_: "Young and only slightly used, skinny, pale, with an English accent. We found her to be rather obedient. May suffer withdrawal symptoms. Going with a starting price of 100, 000 at our next auction."_

The screen blurred. Tears slowly rolled down Sherlock's impassive face. He was breathing heavily, skin drained of all couler. His fists were clenched in his lap. His heart seemed to sting as he read the words over and over again… They treated her like a collector's item.

Before he knew it, Sherlock was marching from the room. 'Sherlock? Sherlock?' Lestrade called after him.

Soon he was out, in the busy haze of ringing phones and office workers. He walked straight through them without pause, causing them to struggle and scatter out of his path.

He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to think. His feet began to quicken in pace as he found the nearest door and slammed it open.

It was the men's bathroom. He hastily locked one of the cubicle doors and sat himself on the closed lid.

His elbows were on his knees and his head in his hands. He sobbed quietly, shoulders jerking, eyes burning. The sound of his crying echoed through the empty room. He was like a school child hiding from were too many things to think about… His brain flitted through his memories of Eve, the memories of his happy little child.

There he closed his eyes and thought:

_There'd never been a prettier toddler._

_'__Fish!' Eve exclaimed, stabbing her small finger at the glass tank. She was wearing wellies and a pink hello kitty anorak. Two strands of black hair dangled from her hood like glossy liquorish. _

_Sherlock kneeled to her level; she'd nagged to be taken to the aquarium for weeks._

_'__Yes… do you like it here?' he wrapped one slender hand around her soft middle. _

_'__Yes it's perfect!' she nodded, grinning. Sherlock couldn't resist nuzzling at her collarbone. She smelt beautiful, of gingerbread and fresh linen. He was pretty sure that merely standing near her sent his serotonin levels through the roof. _

_He kissed her again, savoring the moment. Her huge almond-shaped eyes were fixed on the tank. 'Dad! Dad! Hammerhead! Hammerhead!' she squealed, jumping up and down. She turned to face him and lifted her arms up in the air. 'Up! Up!' Sherlock obediently scooped her up. She wrapped one arm around the back of his neck, the other pointing. Her hood had fallen from her head, making her shiny pre-Raphaelite curls tickle Sherlock's face. _

_Oxytocin; another thing that primed Sherlock's reward-giving hormones into action. He may be a sociopath but he'd quite happily fallen prey to nature's parental instinctiveness. _

_Kiss kiss kiss. Her cheeks were pale and smooth. John appeared beside them, smiling as Eve expertly named each fish that swam by. _

_Kiss kiss kiss. Her face was so white. Pure, virginal. And that's how it would stay. No matter what happened to her, Eve would always be his unblemished baby girl._

The thought calmed him. He lifted his head slightly, sucking himself back to the harsh reality.

Someone was hammering on the door. 'Sherlock?' It was John. Sherlock lowered his head again. There were three more vicious punches. _'__Sherlock?'_

Sherlock reluctantly got to his feet and dragged himself to unlock the door.

John's face was just as fraught with sadness as his own. His eyes were red and moist and he was looking at Sherlock like a parent who's about to comfort their child. Sherlock could sense underlying distress in John's expression, although it was hidden beneath a mask of composure.

They held each other and said nothing; their faces were streaming silently, their lungs bursting to weep, yet neither stirred. They just stood, holding the other, supporting the other, like feeble houses ready to collapse.

***Wipes single, self- indulgent tear.***

**I'm back!**

**(sorry, a lot of tests!) **

**I have to admit it was pretty horrible to have to write the sexualization of children…ugh… but PLEASE review as I would love to hear from you!**

**Evangeline xxx**


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